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“So would other staff.”

“Of course. Performers, safety staff, whoever was assigned to reset that room. It isn’t kept in a locked evidence cabinet. It’s a prop.”

His pen moved again.

A deputy approached from the public walkway and waited until O’Shea stepped aside.

Their conversation was too quiet for me to hear clearly, but I caught my own name.

The cold seemed to find its way beneath every layer I was wearing.

O’Shea came back with a different expression—not accusatory exactly, but more focused.

“We’ve got a witness who remembers seeing a woman they believed was you near the edge of a staff-only area not long before closing.”

My thoughts stalled.

“Believed was me?”

“That’s how the statement was given.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means the witness saw someone at a distance and identified the person as you.”

“Based on what?”

“We’re still establishing that.”

I looked toward the dark line of corn beyond the police lights, trying to reconstruct my own movements. I had been everywhere tonight—production, the Harvest Table, the north split, the queue corridor.

“That attraction has staff paths all through it,” I said. “I cross them constantly.”

“Were you near the area they described?”

“Which area?”

He told me.

The answer made no sense with where I remembered being at that point in the evening.

“I don’t think so. I was still dealing with operations.”

“You don’t think so?”

“I’m not going to pretend I remember the exact minute I crossed every staff path during a five-hour event. I was working.”

“That’s fair.”

Nothing about the situation felt fair.

Behind him, Rick was speaking rapidly into his phone. When he saw me looking, he held up one finger, finished the call, and came toward us until a deputy stopped him at the edge of the secured area.

“I’ve got property counsel working on this,” he said. His voice sounded rough. “They’re getting a criminal-defense lawyer lined up for you too.”

My stomach dropped.

“Why would I need—”